


Fourteen Pieces of Unsolicited Advice...And One Time Thorin Asked What He Should Do

by cc62827



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Pre-Slash, Queer Culture, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 14:16:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cc62827/pseuds/cc62827
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well, if he does appear, I can think of a few better uses for him than burglar.” His tone held a hint of lavaciousness that caught my attention.  I looked sharply at him. I knew exactly which direction Dwalin’s thoughts lay. Less than a third of all dwarfs were women, and physically, they could hardly be distinguished from dwarf men until their braes came off. Even in the presence of a dwarf woman, few dwarfs regardless of sex wanted the time and distraction of marriage. Dwarf society recognized no gender constraint archetypes to consider in the slaking of our physical needs.</p><p>Dwalin continued with a blithe chuckle, interrupting my thoughts. “Best to make him earn his keep on his back. Instead of burglary, he can offer his services in the form of bugga—”</p><p>“Enough!” I interrupted sharply, drawing myself up to my full height and laying a hand on the hilt of my sword. “Listen to me very carefully. No one touches the Hobbit.” I let my eyes harden. “Anyone who tries will answer to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I reserve the right to pick and choose the parts of book and movie cannon I like...consider yourself warned for potential spoilers from each!

1.

I held the wizard’s gaze without flinching, but inside, I wondered if he knew the pride and scorn I’d cloaked myself in were masks for the true emotions running through my veins.

Anticipation.

Hope.

And fear.

None of them things a true king should feel. In my mind, I could hear the voice of my grandfather whispering, “A king does not anticipate. He controls the happenings around him. A king does not hope. He leaves no doubt that his wishes will be fulfilled. A king does not fear. He has absolute confidence in his ability.”

The echo of my ancestors haunted me for a moment, and I straightened my shoulders and scoffed at Gandalf, interrupting him. “I _do not_ need a hobbit in my company.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, and the wizard's face clouded. “If you persuade this Hobbit to join you, you will succeed. If you do not, you will fail.” He narrowed his eyes. “If you refuse even to try, then I have finished with you. You will get no more advice or help from me until the Shadow falls on you.”

I felt a growl grow in the back of my throat, but long experience taught me to judge the truth of a statement, and I knew Gandalf meant what he said. I was under no illusions that his encouragement of my quest was for purely unselfish reasons. But I also knew that, were I to have any hope of success, it wasn’t a journey I could undertake without his aid.

“Very well, I will come. Some foresight is on you, if you are not merely crazed.”  The concession was not, I knew, a gracious one. But it was the only one my pride would allow. I offered him a haughty gesture of dismissal, but the wizard wasn’t yet satisfied.

“Understand that you must come with good will, not merely in the hope of proving me a fool. You must be patient and not easily put off, if neither the courage nor the desire for adventure that I speak of are plain to see at first sight. He will deny them. He will try to back out; but you _must not_ let him.”

My patience, never particularly great of quantitiy, was stretched to its limit. “If I had not given my word, I would not come now. I am serious, deadly serious. My heart burns hot. I have no patience to indulge whims and flights of fancy, even those of a wizard.”

A heartbeat stretched as we studied one another.

“You must trust me, Thorin Oakenshield.”

A curt nod was my answer. Because even though my gut told me I should not, I did trust Gandalf the Grey.

2.

Night time in the Shire was peaceful in a way I’d rarely experienced it. Air cool and filled with the sweet smell of grass moved about in a pleasant breeze. The feast of Bilbo Baggins’ table had lulled most of my company into a heavy sleep. My thoughts kept me awake, and while I did nothing to invite company or counsel, Dwalin roused himself from his position at watch and strolled languidly across the campsite to stand at my side.

He folded arms thick with corded muscle across his chest. “Do you think he’ll come?”

I ignored the inquiry. Rather than let the question die, Dwalin pressed. “The Hobbit, I mean.”

“Gandalf says he will.” My reply drifted into the night, and Dwalin grunted, satisfied by the non-answer.

“Well, if he does appear, I can think of a few better uses for him than burglar.” His tone held a hint of salaciousness that caught my attention, and I looked sharply at him. I knew exactly which direction Dwalin’s thoughts lay. Less than a third of all dwarfs were women, and physically, they could hardly be distinguished from dwarf men until their braes came off. Even in the presence of a dwarf woman, few dwarfs regardless of sex wanted the time and distraction of marriage. Dwarf society recognized no gender constraint archetypes in the slaking of our base physical needs.

Dwalin continued with a blithe chuckle, interrupting my thoughts. “Best to make him earn his keep on his belly. Instead of burglary, he can offer his services in the form of bugga—”

“Enough!” I interrupted sharply, drawing myself up to my full height and laying a hand on the hilt of my sword. “Listen to me very carefully. No one touches the Hobbit.” I let my eyes harden. “Anyone who tries will answer to me.”

Dwalin’s eyes widened, and he flinched back slightly. “As you say, your Highness. I’ll make sure the rest know your feelings on the subject.”

I gave him a sharp nod. “Your watch is over. I’ll stand guard now.”

“Yes, Thorin.”

As Dwalin made his quick, quiet way back to his pallet, I thought about Bilbo Baggins. About his pale skin. His soft hair. And the quiet comfort and hominess he seemed to exude even without trying. Gandalf was wrong. The Hobbit did not belong on this quest. I could only hope the wizard would also wrong about whether or not he would try to join us.

3.

“Y’ought to tell him how to sit a horse properly.” Bifur’s voice was pitched low so only I could hear it. “When Nori and me set him up on the pony, he was stiff as a board. No give to his muscles—what little there are of them— at all. Likely won’t be able to move a’tall by nightfall if he rides that way all day.”

I didn’t glance behind myself, but I knew the Hobbit was nearly at the rear of the column, having gradually fallen back in line. I hadn’t realized his slowing pace was due to more than lack of ability as a horseman. But slowing one's mount was also a common enough way to compensate for the pain of holding stiff under an animal’s gait. I cursed lightly under my breath. I should have known. 

Even though I hadn’t directly acknowledged him, the low sound was enough to let Bifur know I’d heard his words. He fell back without another comment, content that he’d done his duty in laying the problem in my hands. I considered my options. It was nearing time to break for a meal anyway. Raising my arm, I halted the column.

“We’ll stop here.” There was a soft murmur of confusion—it was _nearing_ time to stop, not _time_ to stop—but no one voiced an objection. Sometimes there were benefits to being a prince, even an exiled one. Under the guise of securing the line, I rounded the column until I arrived at its rear.

Even mussed and disgruntled, the little Hobbit had an air about him that, inexplicably, tempted a smile. I kept my face carefully blank and studied him with feigned disinterest and more than a hint of derision.

“You’ve never sat a horse before, have you, Hobbit?”

For half a second, trepidation flashed across his soft features before he straightened his shoulders. “In the Shire, we have more appealing methods of transportation.”

Against my will, I felt my curiosity spark. “Really? And what were those?”

“Our feet,” he replied, crisp and confident. “You might have heard of some of the varieties—walking, strolling, meandering. Sometimes, there was even running—at least, according to rumor.”

Surprise, followed swiftly by amusement I was almost unable to tamp down. I firmed my tone. “If you’re with us, you’ll ride.” I swiveled my head. “Bifur!”

The dwarf appeared at my side instantly. “Yes, Majesty?”

Bifur had brought the problem to my attention; he could damn well see to its solution. I gestured toward Bilbo. “The Hobbit requires a riding lesson. See that he knows how to move in the saddle by the time we set off again.”

The keenest horseman among us, Bifur looked doubtfully at Bilbo. “How long a break will we be having?”

“One hour, Bifur.”

He blew out a sigh and reached toward the Hobbit, presumably to help him from his mount. “Fine then. Best to get you down so we can begin with teaching you how to get back up again.”

Before I even realized I was going to do it, I slid from my own pony, reached out from my position on Bilbo’s other side and plucked him from the saddle, seizing him before Bifur could and setting the little Hobbit on the ground. His legs crumpled the second they made contact with the dirt, and I kept a firm grip around his waist while he got his feet underneath him. As soon as he was steady, I let go and swung myself back up in the saddle.

A glance down showed me the Hobbit’s face looking mulish and irritated over a layer of pain as he rubbed his backside and Bifur, whose normally placid eyes were widened in surprise, watching with amusement. Without acknowledging either of them, I turned my pony and returned to the head of the column.

As I rode, I felt the weight of Gandalf’s eyes on my back, a sensation I steadfastly ignored.

4.

“Well, he can cook at least.” Bombur voice, usually as robust as his waistline, was quieter than normal as he came to my side and handed me a bowl of stew.

"Is that so?" I quirked an eyebrow and accepted the offering. “I’m surprised at you, Bombur. You’re usually quite territorial of your kitchen.”

Bombur snorted. “I wouldn’t call a pot settled on a few measly logs much of a kitchen, Majesty. Perhaps you should set our burglar to the task of stealing a camp stove and mess wagon.”

I ignored the thinly veiled complaint. In outfitting ourselves for the journey, we’d elected to forego supply wagons as they would have had to be abandoned on the narrow mountain trails, anyway. It was a lack of which Bombur hadn’t been shy in bemoaning. Gingerly, I sipped the contents of my bowl, surprised to find the thin stew flavorful and well-seasoned. “And yet it seems as if the Hobbit made do well enough even without the tools of your trade.”

“True enough,” Bombur replied, grudging respect in his voice.

I glanced toward the cook fire, expecting to see Bilbo beside it stirring the pot or perhaps tidying away the mess. He seemed the sort to put things in order before he sat down to eat himself. But a glance around the campsite told me he was nowhere to be found.

“Where has our burglar gotten himself off to, then? Does he choose not to eat with the rest of us?”

“I sent him with bowls for Fili and Kili. He’ll be back for his own share soon enough. For all that he’s a puny thing, he doesn’t seem inclined to miss a meal.” A smile cracked Bombur’s wide face, and he patted his stomach. “A fellow after my own heart in that, I must admit.”

I tilted my head in acknowledgement but felt a frown pull down at the corners of my mouth. Fili and Kili should have been finished securing the ponies by now.

5.

“By Dain’s mighty sword, the Hobbit has managed to stumble into a clutch of trolls.” Oin’s voice sounded as breathless as I felt. “If he can get into peril delivering a bowl of soup, I shudder to think of his fate when he’s faced with the dragon. Truly, Majesty, it might be a kindness to let the bumbling idiot meet his end here, rather than drag him further along the quest.”

A muscle ticked in the side of my jaw, but I didn’t bother to acknowledge Oin’s suggestion. Instead I ordered, low and fervent, “On my mark, we charge the clearing. Our best hope for success lies in surprise.”

Behind me, I heard and felt my dwarfs shift into battle stance.

I took a deep breath and tightened my grip on my sword. I would rescue the Hobbit. And then I would strangle him.

6.

Across the clearing, Gandalf worked patiently to make sense of the gibberish pouring from the mouth of the other wizard—Radagast the Brown.  I had little patience for fools and mad men on the best of days, and this was far from my best day.

Without thought as to why, my eyes drifted to the Halfling.

At my side, Nori noticed the direction of my attention and groaned in dismayed surprise. “Durin preserve us, he’s going to lob his own ear off. Best if you go take that blade away from him, your Highness, before he blinds himself. Or one of us.”

Perched on a patch of moss, Bilbo was studying a dagger clearly stolen from the Troll hoard with equal measures of childlike delight, fascination, and fear. None of the others paid him any mind, and against my better judgment, I grunted a dismissal at Nori and approached the Halfling.

“You’ve claimed yourself a blade, then?” I asked when I reached his side, voice carefully disinterested. It wouldn’t do for me to show undue concern over something so insignificant as Bilbo Baggins choosing to arm himself.

“I—yes,” he said, voice shaking a bit. “I wasn’t stealing. Gandalf said that I should—”

“Calm yourself, Halfling.” I interrupted. “You’ve as much right as any in our company to the booty of the hoard. After all, it was your doing more than any other that led to us discovering the stash, wasn’t it?”

A flush crept up his cheeks as he read the thinly veiled censure in my tone.

“I am sorry, Thorin. I should have found a way to rescue the ponies without getting myself caught by the—”

“Your mistake was not in getting caught, burglar.”

Confusion marred his features. “Then what—”

“Your mistake was in not coming to fetch me as soon as you came upon the trolls in the first place.”

“Oh. Well. Yes. I suppose I could have—”

I cut him off before he could continue. “Fili and Kili are my nephews, and I bear great affection for them. But their judgment is not sound. Hobbits may be small of stature, but I was led to believe you were large of mind and clever. You should have known better. You acted foolishly, Halfling”

I fully expected the Hobbit to accept the scolding as his due, perhaps to react with gratitude for having escaped a harsher punishment than mere words. And for a bare moment, Bilbo did seem cowed. Then something remarkable happened.

The Hobbit straightened his shoulders and tilted his smooth chin defiantly up at me. “I beg your pardon! I’ll have you know I managed to free the ponies all on my own. Why, if it hadn’t been for—for—sheer, unfortunate, coincidence, I would have saved our mounts and slipped quietly away! And if you and your company hadn’t—butted in—well, I’m sure I would have found a way to sort that situation myself, too!”

I felt a flash of surprise, followed quickly by amusement.

“Is that so, Hobbit?”

“It is.” He declared with a firm nod.

“Well then, perhaps you’ll permit me to give you one piece of advice? It might come in handy the next time you wish to avoid the hassle of unnecessary rescue.”

“I—yes?” His voice was decidedly suspicious.

“You’re wearing your scabbard backwards. The blade should angle behind you.”

“Well! I knew that. I was only—getting the fit of the belt.”

This time I could not keep the smile from my face. It was strange, in the years since the loss of my kingdom, I had become a sober man. But since the Hobbit joined our company, I’d found myself tempted by amusement in a way I hadn’t been in decades. “Of course. Forgive my assumption,” I replied gravely. 

“Er—yes. You’re forgiven. And if you have any other—erm—assumptions that might concern my skill with a sword, well, I suppose it would be permissible for you to share them. Not that I’ll likely need them, mind you.”

A second smile in as many minutes. And I had to resist shaking my head at the folly of taking such pleasure in the spirit of the Hobbit. “Indeed,” I drawled.  

Before I could say anything else, Gandalf’s yell caught my attention. “Thorin, to me! We are under attack! Wargs and Orcs! We must make haste!”


	2. Chapter 2

7.

“The weight of your discontent tonight lays heavily on the company, my boy.”

I’d heard the distinctive sound of Balin’s approach as he stirred the leaves littering the courtyard, but I did not acknowledge him. When he spoke, I did not turn my eyes from the night sky rising high above the forest like the glittering diamond ceilings I remembered from my youth.

“And I’m sure you have a suggestion for easing my worry, old man.”

Balin chuckled. “Of course. What better way to put discontent aside than to lose yourself in a bit of physical respite, eh? Nori was looking for you earlier. And there’s Bofur, if you’ve a mind to bury yourself in an enthusiastic receiver. It’s true any of the lads would welcome the chance to join you in your chamber tonight. Choose one and take him before the rest pair off. Forget your troubles for an evening.”

In all honesty, I’d considered doing just that. I knew it was what most of my kinsmen would expect, and indeed would do themselves. But then as I considered, I thought about the pleasures to be found in the bodies of my fellows—rutting against cords and ropes of muscle covered by coarsely furred skin, the grip and thrust of hot, rough hands and wide, jutting staffs—and felt not the slightest temptation.

I could feel Balin’s gaze like a weight on my chest, intuitively gauging my lack of interest. “And, of course, there is another option.” His voice was low, careful, as he continued.

I flinched. It was slight, barely there, but one who’d known me as long as Balin would not have missed it. There was a long pause before he realized I wasn’t going to acknowledge this suggestion.

“Why will you abstain?” He demanded, voice consternated.  “In your Grandfather’s time, dwarf men and elf women laid together at will. Gloin told me at dinner tonight that the pleasure women here made their interest in you quite evident. You needn’t trust them or like them to use their bodies, boy. There is status to be had, mating with a dwarf. Give them what they want, and take what you desire in return.”

My heart stuttered. He was suggesting—by the blood of Thror. No.

“I value your friendship and your council, Balin. But do not tell me to do such a thing again. You know my distaste of elves. And you of all people know the reason for my feelings.”

“Your distrust did not always preclude your behavior.”

I felt a wash of shame, remembering my past. Remembering Tharanduil. In my youth, I had more than once explored the delights to be found in the body of an elf. But that was before they—before he—betrayed my trust. I could forgive anything. Except a betrayal.

“I was a child. Now I am a man, and I know better. I will hear no more of this.”

Perceptive eyes studied me. “When I first made the suggestion, you did not react so bluntly. With whom did you think I was suggestion you slake your desires?”

I shook my head firmly. “We will speak no more of this, Balin. Away from me now. I will keep my own counsel, and if the company is disturbed by my mood, I’ll thank them to leave me to it.”

Well aware of the consequences of trying my patience, Balin bowed slightly and quietly slipped away, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Fool’s thoughts which now were filled with images of eyes sparking with unexpected fire and the imagined feel of a slight frame under mine, welcoming and smelling of cloves and grass and peaceful quiet.

8.

In the hallway as I walked to my room, I could hear arguing.

“I’ll not stand for it,” Gloin declared. “Just because I’m the only one with a wife, doesn’t mean I should have to be saddled with the Hobbit for the night.”

“I beg your pardon!” Bilbo’s disgruntled voice piped up. “What do you mean, ‘saddled with the Hobbit?’”

“Yes,” I drawled, approaching without notice. “What do you mean?”

The clutch of dwarfs in front of me—and one little Hobbit—jumped in surprise. “Gloin?” I prompted.

“Eh—it’s just, most of the others have—paired off, you might say. Leaving myself and Master Baggins. And as each room has only the one bed—well—you can see the problem.”

I could, in fact, see the problem. For all that it is rare, once a dwarf marries, he or she will not lie with any other even after the death of their spouse. At night as we camped, Gloin took care to make certain his bedroll didn’t touch his neighbor’s. Sharing a bed with the Hobbit would be impossible for him, sharing even a private room with just two abhorrent in its own right. And, yet, the idea of the Hobbit joining any of the others was displeasing to me. Extremely displeasing.

“—he’s a Hobbit fully grown and well aware of the ways of the world. Let him go with one of the couples,” Gloin groused at me. “He might even enjoy himself.”

A rumble of agreement, followed quickly by unwillingness to be the pair who actually accepted the Hobbit followed on the heels of Gloin’s suggestion.

Beside the large dwarf, Bilbo choked. “Er—no. I’d rather not, thank you. Perhaps I could just spread my pallet here in the hall. I don’t need a bed, really. After a month on the road, I’m quite content with a—firm surface. Good for the back and all that.”

 “Enough.” I declared.  “He’ll come with me.”

“I—come with—are you sure that’s a sound plan? I—”

I silenced the Halfling with a glance pleased that for once he didn’t argue.

“Now, to bed, all of you. We leave with the dawn. Gandalf has arranged a diversion for us.”

I turned on my heel and walked toward my room, Bilbo trailing reluctantly—but obediently—behind me. As we walked away, I heard Gloin whisper, “Will Thorin not seek—”

“The prince’s mind is on matters of greater importance than the flesh,” Balin interrupted harshly. “Do not question his judgment.”

I had to bite back an incredulous snort as I entered my chamber. Do not question, indeed.

“Wh—what is it?”

The Hobbit’s voice startled me.

“What is what?” I asked, sounding perhaps more gruff than I intended.

“You seemed—amused.”

I shook my head. “Nothing of importance. Come, Halfling. I’m tired.”

“Right, then.” For a second, Bilbo looked wistfully at the bed then started to slowly unroll his pallet.

“Don’t be a fool. I’ll not make you sleep on the floor when there’s a bed big enough to fit ten of us, let alone two.”

“I—I don’t understand. Are you suggesting—that is to say, I heard the others, and—”

“Calm yourself. I have no interest in availing myself of your charms, Hobbit. You hold no interest to me beyond your services as a burglar.”

“O—of course. I hadn’t thought you’d—well then, I’ll just. Right. Good. Washroom’s through here, then?”

The Hobbit scurried away as I clenched my fists and prayed for strength.

I would get no sleep this night. Liars rarely slept easy, and fools less so. I was both. A liar for denying my desire, and a fool for feeling it at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...the thing with dwarf fidelity...that's straight from Tolkien.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG - THANK YOU for all of the encouraging feedback...I reallyreallyreallyreally appreciate it!

9.

The small body burrowed against my side was soft and warm with sleep. Gritting my teeth, I used hands, firm but gentle, to set the Halfling away from me again. Bilbo did not wake, but his displeasure was clear nonetheless. He made a sleepy noise of protest and scooted himself closer to my side

Even in sleep, the little Hobbit was stubborn as any dwarf.

When Bilbo padded back into the bedchamber from the wash room, cheeks pink and clean, hair shining, he’d been wearing a long, soft cotton sleeping garment provided by the elves. Even the smallest size they had drug the floor behind him, and he’d flushed as he looked at me where I’d settled against the headboard, my only concession to night time being the removal of my boots and outer layers of leather armor and fur cloaking.

“Er—your turn in the wash room. The sizing of the night clothes is a bit—tricky. But they’re comfortable, nonetheless.”

I snorted, derisive, but rolled to my feet. “I’ve no need of Elvish garments, Halfling.” Warm water for washing would not, however, be unwelcome.

“Oh…” The Hobbit trailed off, and it was clear he wanted to say more, perhaps ask a question, but was holding his tongue.

I considered ignoring him, but my own curiosity won out. “Oh?” I prompted.

Bilbo swallowed. “It’s just—well—it’s evident you aren’t particularly enamored of the elves. And I wondered—why that might be. They seem quite fine folk, to me. Very hospitable.”

“And hospitality alone makes them fine folks to you, Halfling?”

He shrugged and offered me a tentative smile. “It certainly helps. And Lord Elrond seems to want to help.”

I narrowed my eyes. Something about the Hobbit’s tone catching my notice. “Does he, indeed. And how would you know that? Were you watching where you shouldn’t have been, Master Burglar? Stealing information, perhaps?”

Bilbo’s eyes widened, and I could see the guilt in them without him saying a word. To my surprise, he didn’t dissemble. “I shouldn’t have, I know. But I was curious. I’ve a bit of a fascination with maps, so I followed. I didn’t mean any harm.”

In a gathering of dwarfs, elves, and one canny wizard, the fact that the Hobbit had observed us unnoticed was indeed impressive. Perhaps Gandalf had not been exaggerating the Halfling’s abilities, after all. But that was neither here nor there. I waved a dismissive hand. “It makes no difference. And as for my feelings regarding elves, I’m sure Fili or Kili would be happy to enlighten you. It is a well-known part of the legend of the loss of Erebor.”

“Er—yes. I know the tale. From Gandalf. I just wondered if there was something—more—to your ill feelings.”

I felt my temper spark. “Something more? Should there be? The elves were our allies, and they abandoned us to the fate of Smaug!”

“Abandoned—oh! I’m very sorry. I must have misunderstood. I didn’t realize—”

Misunderstood? What was there to misunderstand? Before I realized fully what I was about, I found myself across the room, my hands clasped on the Hobbit’s shoulders. “Explain,” I demanded.

Bilbo swallowed heavily, but in spite of my harsh grip, he did not seem afraid. “In the story, the dwarfs were already escaped from Erebor. They were fleeing the halls, and the Elves were watching them, making sure they were away from the dragon.”

He stopped, and it took me a moment to realize that was the entirety of his speech. “Yes. They abandoned us in our time of need. What more reason do I need to distrust them?”

“Abandoned—but Smaug was already in the fortress?”

“Yes,” I said, clipped.

“And a great many dwarfs had died before your retreat.”

My gut clenched at the memory. More than 100 years ago, and still I could smell the stench of burning flesh. “More than two thirds of our number.”

“W-what would have happened if the elves had joined the fight?” Bilbo’s voice was strangely gentle. It was a softness I craved but at the same time could not stand. I pulled my hand from his shoulders and turned away from him, folding my arms across my chest to keep me from reaching out to him again. “You would have gone back to the battle, yes?” He asked.

I nodded once. “But instead, the elves betrayed us.”

“Had you returned to confront Smaug, even with an army of elves, would you have—been victorious?”

I whirled on the Hobbit again. “What does that matter?”

“I—well—Hobbits understand little of battles and alliances, I’ll admit. But it seems to me they stood ready to defend your retreat and perhaps—saved the lives of the remnants of your kingdom by—abstaining?”

I stared at him for a long moment fury warring with pity. “You are right, Hobbits understand very little.” I turned on my heel and strode into the washroom, leaving no doubt as to my ire.

I took my time with my ablutions, hoping the Halfling would be asleep by the time I returned to the bed chamber and allowing my temper to cool. I couldn’t expect a sheltered young Hobbit, as naïve as a child, to understand the principles of honor in battle.

When I came out, still dressed should I need to rise quickly but clean and refreshed, the Hobbit was curled on the far side of the bed in a tight ball under the covers. I assumed, for a moment, that he indeed slept. As soon as I swung my legs up, thought, his voice, small and tired, broke the silence.

“I did not mean to upset you, Thorin.”

“Then speak no more of matters beyond your understanding. The elves showed their colors well and truly at Erebor. Let that be sufficient reason for you to use caution around them.”

“We are safe here, Thorin.”

“I know little of safety, Halfling. But you may rest easy. I’ll allow no harm to come to you.”

“Nor I, you.” He said pertly.

In the dark, I smiled again, “Then here in the home of my enemy, I am well and truly guarded.”

Though my words were in jest, a strange sensation unfurled in the vicinity of my heart. It had been nearly a century since I’d been offered promise of protection. It was a need I’d long since outgrown. Or thought I had. And yet, the offer stilled something in my breast I hadn’t realized was in need of soothing.

The Hobbit was true to his word all night—he’d barely allowed an inch of space between us. The insistent warmth of his body had been torturous and confusing. His size, barely three and a half feet in height, was that of a child. But burrowing against my chest, he sparked feelings no child would raise in me. I wanted him. Badly. But I would not take him.

I also would not fully end my torment by moving entirely away from him. With a sleepy mutter, he rolled until his backside was to my front and wiggled himself against me. I had to bite back a moan at the innocent torment.

The tap on my chamber door, short and soft, came as a welcome relief. I rose from the bed and made my way silently to the door. I opened it, and met Ori’s surprised gaze. “It is as you said, m’Lord. Gandalf has been called to a meeting of the White Council.” He paused, looking hesitant.

“What is it?” I asked, impatient. I still had to get the Hobbit up and on his feet before we could depart.

“Er—with all respect, Majesty. You look—ill rested. Perhaps we should delay? The others would not mind another night in Rivendell.”

I held back a shudder as I considered another night of torment with the Halfling in my bed. “Nay. Rouse the company. We leave now.”

10.

When I saw Bilbo fall, something deep in my chest cracked. Desperately, I rushed to pull him back up, terror at realizing I might not be able to save him choking my throat. It was a fear greater than I’d felt fleeing the wargs, greater than when I realized we’d stumbled into the battle of the storm giants, greater even than when Smaug’s flame had licked around the column when he invaded Erebor.

When I pulled the Halfling to the ledge, I felt a moment of crushing relief so intense, a strange sensation prickled my eyes. Tears. They were tears. And that was a sob rising in the back of my throat. Horrified, I did the only thing I could think of to force back the inappropriate reaction.

I seized on fury.

Fury that Bilbo would have come here at all, would have put himself in danger at all. He should never have left the Shire. He should have stayed in Rivendell. He should have been anywhere but here, far from home in danger he could not possible understand or prepare for.

“He’s been lost since he left Bag End,” I sneered, shaking off the Hobbit as he tried to shake me. A stream of hateful words, directed in truth more at myself than at Bilbo, ran from my mouth, and I wrenched myself as far away from him as I could. Damn the Halfling. He was going to get himself killed. But I wouldn’t let him. I wouldn’t.

I refused to let myself look at him again, but I knew he was soaked to the bone, shivering and exhausted in a way that my dwarfs were not. I had to find him shelter. I had to find him a safe place to rest. I had to—“Over here, a cave!” I shouted. “This way.”

As my company settled, weary in pallets and missing the heat of the fire I’d forbidden. I let myself look across the cave at Bilbo. He was turned away from me, small and fragile in his blankets. I ached to touch him, to demand to see each of his limbs and know for myself that he was whole and undamaged. But I knew I could not. Because of my ridiculous feelings for the Halfling, I’d endangered my fellows as I rushed to his aid and put in jeopardy the most important thing in the world—the reclamation of Erebor. I could feel the disapproval, the judgment of the spirits of my ancestors. I was a dwarf prince, the rightful king under the mountain of my people. My peculiar attachment to the Hobbit would end now. I would allow myself no further indulgence. And if he hated me for my harsh words, so much the better.

“Thorin, majesty, my watch is first.” Bofur’s voice was quiet so as not to disturb those already fallen into sleep.

I nodded once, sharply. “Bifur will relieve you in a few hours.”

“I—yes. But I wanted to ask. I’m a bit worried about Master Baggins, Majesty. He is—well—I just thought you might want to check on him. Make sure he’s doing alright.”

For half a heartbeat, I was tempted. Soft snores now filled the cavern, the dwarfs exhausted past the point of being able to stay awake at all. Surely Bilbo was asleep, as well. I could just—no. “I’ve no time to coddle anyone, least of all a useless Hobbit. Get to your post, Bofur, and do not bother me again with petty concerns.”

As I settled into my own pallet, I felt the phantom warmth of a sweet, soft form pressing against me, warming me. I did not have to stay where I was. I could put my blanket roll beside his, close enough for him to roll against me in the night, seeking warmth, giving unrealized comfort I’d never been offered before and let myself slip into sleep for once not alone.

I did not move.

Sleep deepened across the cave but did not touch me. My eyes were wide when I heard movement and saw Bilbo rise. And heard him speak. And realized that the Halfling would leave me to my fate. And that he would, at least, be safe.

I pressed my eyes closed. For reasons I chose not to examine closely, I could not watch the Halfling turn away. I also could not move to stop him.

Then, under my cheek, I heard the machinations. My eyes flew open in horror, and I called out to my company. From across the cavern, my gaze landed on Bilbo as the floor fell away, and my last thought was that if he’d only left a bit faster, I could have spared him what I knew was to come.

Goblins. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for the amazing feedback. 
> 
> My family and I went on a Christmas cruise, and I just got back. Internet at sea was way too expensive to pay for, so imagine my delight when I logged on this evening and saw all of the amazing comments you all had left me. You completely made my day. I hope this chapter lives up to expectations...there's one more to go after this...

 11.

_“Where is your Hobbit? Where is Bilbo?”_

A shard of icy terror pieced my heart as Gandalf’s words washed over the company. A chorus of voices raised, but the muscles of my throat were paralyzed. I’d lost him. I’d _left_ him to the Goblins. Dear Durin—then Nori’s voice rang out, and the ice turned into bile.

He’d slipped away.

Slipped. Away.

Bilbo abandoning the company when we were safe, in a dry cave in the mountain, sheltered and whole, especially after what I’d said to him—I could understand. But slipping away, leaving us purposely to our deaths. Just—turning his back on the company.

On Bofur, who I could tell he’d struck up an unlikely friendship with.

On Balin, who’d begun treating him as a caring grandfather.

On Bombur, who he laughed and shared recipes with over months of cook fires.

On Bifur, who used a few of his sparse words and gestures to teach him to sit a pony.

On Kili, who’d lept first into the fray to save him from the trolls.

On Oin, Gloin, Nori, Ori, Dori, Dwalin, and Fili. Even on Gandalf.

And on me. After he’d—even Thranduil had not—

 _“What happened? Tell me!”_ Gandalf’s fury, directed at Nori for telling of Bilbo’s escape, caught my attention, and I felt matching anger rise, a welcome relief from the pain of betrayal I hadn’t been prepared for. The words rose, bitter and pained, and I let them pour out.

“I’ll tell you what happened! Master Baggins saw his chance, and he took it! He’s thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door. We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone.”

Silence fell like an iron curtain in the wake of my words. The company looking back and forth between themselves, uncomfortable and unsure. Even Gandalf seemed shaken. I bolstered my anger, grinding out tendrils of hurt like sparks under my boot heels. I opened my mouth to tell Dwalin to take the lead, to shake the dust of these woods from our feet, when a word stopped me. Froze me in my tracks.

“No. He isn’t.”

Bilbo.

Dimly, I heard Gandalf’s exclamation. Then Fili and Kili, asking how such a thing as his escape from the Goblins was possible. Rumbles of agreement for the question, and Gandalf protesting. None of it mattered. Underneath me, my legs felt strangely weak as I pushed forward. I didn’t understand. Had he left us? Or—

“It matters,” my voice was rough, and even though I couldn’t see my own face, I knew its expression must be raw, open in a way a true King’s never should. But I didn’t care. All I could see was the Halfling. “I want to know. Why did you come back?”

For a heartbeat, he looked defiant. Then kindness softened his face, and the corners of his lips lifted in a smile. It was strange, his expression. My memories of my mother were very dim, but something about the way he looked at me sparked them. It was a strange, useless thought, but it was there nonetheless. Before I could form another thought, the Hobbit answered. Although his words could have been directed to the entire company, I knew somehow they were just for me.

“I know you doubt me. I know you always have.” He paused and tilted his head ruefully. “You’re right. I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. My armchair. My garden. See, that’s where I belong. That’s home. That’s why I came back. Because you don’t have one—a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”

And then, he waited.

Words failed me.

Failed everyone, really, even Gandalf.

From a few steps to my right, Dori, never silent long, finally sucked in a breath and whispered low enough I barely heard him. “Sire, I think it best we welcome the burglar back to the company. He seems to mean what he—”

Before I could do anything else—be it answer the Halfling or shove Dori down the hill—I heard the snarl of wargs, and the glimmer of an Elvish blade caught my eye. In the distance, I saw a pack of Orcs crest the hill above us.

“Out of the frying pan.” I whispered, horrified.

“And into the fire. Run. Run!” Gandalf yelled.

And then we were flying down the side of the mountain. I let myself fall back slightly, keeping myself at the rear of the company. As we fled, my eyes locked on the Hobbit. He would not slip away again.

 

12\. & 13.

I had failed.

Failed my father.

Failed my grandfather.

Failed my quest and my company.

Over the roaring of the fire surrounding us, I could hear the panicked cries of the brave dwarfs who’d put their trust in me. They were falling. There was nowhere to go, no help to be found. In front of me, Azoc’s face was a deformed mask. The enemy I’d thought defeated, the vengeance I’d thought won for my line. For a moment, I wondered at the cruelty of fate and thought, perhaps, I could understand how my father and grandfather had slipped into madness.

Injured already after the battle with the Goblins, I knew I could not defeat the Defiler. But I would not meet my end cowering. I would fall in battle.

I charged toward the pale Orc.

And failed again.

As my head slammed into the rock, I struggled to remain conscious. The blade kissed my throat. Writhing, dizzy and defeated, I still reached for my sword. Fight. Fight to the end. I was of the line of Durin—I—I could not—

For a moment, I didn’t understand what I was seeing, and then the sight of the Halfling throwing himself in front of my penetrated the haze. No! I wanted to scream. I wanted to curse and rage and force him back. I struggled again, pain like a lightning bolt of fire sliced through my skull, and everything went dark. A glimmer of something like thanks slipped past my escaping conscious—if this was how I had to leave this life, a part of me was glad the stubborn line of the Hobbit’s shoulders was the last thing I saw.

*             *             *

From the darkness, I felt myself called back. Gandalf’s voice was leading me, and I struggled to find it. And then. There. I had it. Like wind rushing through a tunnel, I threw myself up and into awareness. My eyes opened, bright light blinding me. Even before I truly could see, I heard myself rasping.

“The Halfling?”

Gandalf’s hand anchored me to rock, and I didn’t understand what was happening. But I didn’t care. All that mattered was the assurance in his tone when he said, “He’s alright. Bilbo is here. He’s quite safe.”

Something in my chest cracked. Pain. Weakness. Exhaustion. None of it mattered. I struggled to my feet, my eyes somehow drawn to exactly where the Halfling stood, small and alone and achingly brave on the wide ledge.

I moved toward him, my company once again forgotten. My failures. My quest. Everything forgotten.

“You,” I gasped, lingering terror and outrage that he would have put himself in such danger making my voice harsh. “What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed. Did I not say to you that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?” I demanded trying to hold myself steady as I staggered forward.

Bilbo’s face was a mask, frozen, clearly willing to let me say whatever I would. I took another step, and then I was falling forward, the little Hobbit catching me as I drug him against my chest and wrapped my arms around him. For a moment, I let myself sag against him. I should be holding him, shaking him, demanding that he never act so foolishly again. But I wasn’t.

“I have never been so wrong in my life.”

Behind me, my company cheered at my words. Bilbo, though, said nothing. There was a flash of surprise, and then, the little Halfling held me. A prince of Dwarfs must never show weakness, but for one moment, I was content to let the little Hobbit do the unthinkable. I allowed myself the comfort of his arms for three heartbeats, then forced myself to straighten and the Halfling away from my body.

“I am sorry I doubted you.”

There was a hint of humor and irony in his reply. “Oh no. I would have doubted me, too. I’m not a hero. Or a warrior. Not even a burglar.”

Overhead, great eagles swooped through the sky, drawing my attention up, and for a moment, my heart stopped. I didn’t realize what I was doing until I stepped forward, wrapping my fingers around the Hobbit’s arm and pulling him around. It was—I wanted him to see. I wanted to _show_ him. My home. But I couldn’t speak. Behind us the company crowded against my back almost as though the site caused them to need comfort, as well. Gandalf spoke, understanding without being told that for a moment, none of us could.

“Erebor. Last of the great Dwarf kingdoms of Middle Earth.” His powerful voice filled the air it was enough to help me find my own words.

“Our home.”

Bilbo was a pillar of quiet strength beside me. Then Oin said, excited, “Look! The bird’s are returning to the mountain.”

“That, my dear Oin, is a Thrush,” Gandalf replied.

In my breast, my heart clenched. “We’ll take it as a sign. A good omen.” I looked down at Bilbo. Excitement shown on his features.

“You’re right! I think the worst is behind us.”

There was a heartbeat, and then Gandalf’s grisled voice again. “That, Bilbo, remains to be seen. But for this night, at least, it is true. This is the Carrock, and Gwaihir, Lord of the Eagles, has given us leave to rest ourselves in his realm for the night.”

I felt Gandalf’s eyes on my face, waiting for my reaction. If he thought I was going to protest, he was wrong. But I also knew that my company would not settle themselves until I gave my agreement. Straightening my shoulders, nodded and forced myself to step away from the Halfling, settling the mantle of authority once more upon my shoulders.

“Good. Let us go down a bit, out of the wind.”

“A sound plan,” Gandalf nodded. “The falls of the Carrock are from the river Anudin and carry with them a measure of the healing powers of Rivendell.”

I tilted my head in agreement. “Then let us find a place to camp, and then we’ll tend to our wounds.”

Somehow in the course of the conversation, Bilbo had slipped from his place by my side. He was standing at the head of the stairs carved into the face of the rock, flanked on either side by Bombur and Bofur.

“Best to stay close to us, Master Baggins,” Bofur said. “These gusts of wind are strong enough to sweep you right over the edge of the stairs.”

I felt myself flinch forward. The wind would not carry away my Hobbit. I wouldn’t allow it. Before I could move to anchor him against me, Fili’s voice caught my attention. Beside him, Kili stood, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. “Thorin?” His tone was tentative in a way I’d rarely heard from the brash young dwarf. It was enough to distract me.

“Yes?” I replied, voice clipped, eyes trained on the Halfling as he and Bofur and Bombur started down, following Balin and Gandalf. The rest of the company moving in behind them, increasing the distance between Bilbo and I.

“I—just—”

“Spit it out, Fili,” I gestured impatiently. “I’m tired and thirsty. I’m not in the mood to dawdle.”

“K-Kili and I, we should have come to your aid. It was not—Master Baggins should not have done.”

For a moment, I was tempted to agree with them. Master Baggins _should not_ have done, but neither should they feel guilt for his actions. Not yet 75 years old, they were adults it was true, but they were not yet truly dwarf men. My sister, Dis, had fretted them coming, but it was a choice they had a right to make. Afterall, I’d been only a few years older than they when Smaug came and when I’d followed my grandfather into battle at Moria. They had never known Erebor, but they’d grown up hearing tales of its beauty. They had as much right as any other dwarf to seek their ancestral home.

I blew out a heavy breath. “Both of you have acted with honor on this quest. You’re of the line of Durin, and every step we’ve taken, you’ve proven your mettle. Do not let regret weigh on your mind.”

Fili’s eyes dropped, and he studied the ground with Kili. This time, it was my other nephew who spoke. “It seemed as though—well—Bilbo, he stood between you and Azoc. He—protected you.”

I waited. We were alone on the plateau now. Whatever they were trying to say, I was glad of the privacy. “Yes,” I prompted, not particularly wishing to think about what the Halfling had done, but also unwilling to fail to acknowledge the truth of Kili’s words.

“It seems strange, that he would do such a thing.” Fili explained.

I bit back frustration. “We all underestimated the Halfling. Me most of all.”

“No.” Kili said in a rush. “It’s more than that. He—you—were looking at him—”

 “And now I’m looking at the two of you. Should I refrain from using my eyes?” I demanded. “Either come to your point or climb down the rock. The both of you are trying my patience.”

“It just seems a bit cruel,” Fili blurted. “To—”

“To what?”

“When we take back Erebor, you will be King Under the Mountain,” Kili said by way of explanation.

“Trying to hold a conversation with either of you is like attempting to unravel riddles told by halfwits. I am finished with this.” I turned and strode toward the stairs.

“Whatever thoughts you might have of the Hobbit, you know nothing can come of it.” Fili’s quiet words followed me. “His fascination with you has been clear from the beginning. It would be cruel of you to let him think there is more to your regard than gratitude. Gandalf says things are different for Hobbits. That they don’t seek lightly the pleasures of the flesh. You must know that, Uncle? That’s why you told Dwalin none of us were to—trifle—with the Halfling?”

I paused. Waited. My nephews were clearly not finished.

“Bofur feels a great measure of affection for Master Baggins,” Kili added when Fili paused. “When all of this ends, when we reclaim Erebor, I think he would—keep the Hobbit. As his mate, I mean. If you told Bilbo to seek comfort with Bofur, he would understand that anything more than friendship would not be possible with you. It’s a kindness he deserves, Uncle.”

“And what do you think reaction to that would be from our people?” I asked, voice hollow. “It’s one thing to lay occasionally with an Elf or a human. But to mate with a kind not our own would never be accepted.”

“Perhaps not by everyone,” Kili said.

“Not even by most,” Fili agreed. “But the thirteen of us, we like Bilbo. We would see that no harm or offense came to him. And it could be done—quietly. Bofur is a simple dwarf. Even with his share of the treasure, he will never lead a life of scrutiny. As long as they did not flaunt themselves, it wouldn’t cause great offense. ”

I closed my eyes. “I will consider your suggestion. Is that all?”

“Yes, Uncle,” they replied at the same time, sounding both somber and relieved.

 

14.

The ledge was covered with soft, sweet smelling rock and sheltered by a high circular outcrop that somehow almost felt like the inside of a mountain. In the goblin caves, we’d lost nearly everything but our lives and our weapons. And while there was no food to be found, there was plenty of fresh, good water. At Gandalf’s urging, the entire company had washed in the shelter of the falls. Already, the scrapes and cuts that covered the faces, arms, and chests of my fellows seemed to be healing.

It was a bit of an awkward thing, our washing. For all that dwarfs were open about the ways in which we sought companionship; bathing our hair and beards in particular was usually a very private affair. Gandalf must have known this. He’d chosen an area of falls set on a curve with many tall outcroppings of rock peppered around it. While there were not private rooms, the natural landscape created a handful of rocky alcoves. By unspoken agreement, each member of the company was able to take turns washing completely in the rock stalls and then redress as he saw fit and let the next dwarf have privacy to attend to his full skin.

After I left Fili and Kili, I’d glanced around looking for the Halfling. Balin had seen the sweep of my gaze and told me quietly, “Gandalf just sent him to wash. He was waiting for you.”

I’d looked at the old dwarf sharply, but for once he offered no comment, his face carefully blank. Choosing to follow his example and hold my own council, I’d taken my own turn to slip out of sight, strip, and quickly douse my entire body underneath the water. I ran over my hair, soaked my wounded shoulder, and soothed every inch of my battered, tired body. I’d tipped back my face and opened my mouth, letting it fill my throat, my nose, and my ears. For a few precious seconds, I let sight, and sound, and smell and feeling wash away in a deluge of water.

But I did not linger over long. I was eager to check on all of the others, make sure everyone was feeling as restored as I. I stepped away from the falls and began to dress. I had no toweling, but I found I did not mind the feel of the lingering moisture on my skin. Pulling my pants and boots back on, I knew it couldn’t be so, but between the wash of water against the outside of my trunk and the slide of it down the inside of my chest, I could almost feel the cracked bones of my ribs knitting together.

From the exclamations of the others around the rock barriers, I could tell I wasn’t the only one mystified by and grateful for the healing waters. I was reaching for my undershirt when I felt the weight of eyes on my back and turned around. I knew who was watching me before I looked.

The Halfling was bare chested, too, clutching the remains of his shirt and coat and vest, once so carefully kept now tattered. Though I should have looked away, I let my eyes rake over him from top to bottom. Sodden curls lay across his forehead, and I was alarmed at the site of an angry red bite. Streaks of infection were already starting to run down his shoulder, and my heart clenched. Goblin bites were poisonous, and clearly that’s what this was. I lurched forward.

“It’s alright. It’s already healing.” Bilbo’s voice was soft. He must have seen the direction of my attention. “Gandalf must have been right about the water. My whole arm was hot when I started washing, now it’s cool, and the red’s even starting to go away.”

I paused and forced myself to calm, but I didn’t back up. “Let me see,” I demanded.

The Halfling hesitated only a moment before he stepped fully around the edge of the rock he’d been behind and toward me. In the dim mist, I could see a hint of blush on his cheeks. “See?” He asked softly.

To my great surprise, I did see. Bilbo was right. The streaks of infection were drawing back up his skin in front of my eyes. It was remarkable. And I didn’t really care. Assured that he would not be lost to the poison of the bite, I reached out one finger and touched the far edge of the wound. It was far enough up his shoulder to count as his throat. Under my calloused skin, his flesh was soft and warm. I imagined I could feel Bilbo’s pulse throbbing.

“We’ll have to watch it closely,” I said, voice gruff. “If we have to cut off the arm to stop the infection—”

“I’m absolutely sure that won’t be necessary,” Bilbo interrupted, sounding somehow horrified, prim, and disgruntled all at once. “I believe I’ll be keeping all my various parts all to myself today, thank you very much.”

Behind me, the water roared. His words sparked a flash of amusement, and I felt the suggestion of a smile tilt up the corners of my mouth. No amount of laughter, though, could have distracted me from the way it felt to touch the Halfling. My eyes locked with his, and I felt time slow. From the way he swayed toward me and the soft sound he made in the back of his throat, I could sense that I wasn’t the only one so affected by whatever spell had woven between Bilbo and I.

Carefully, making sure he understood he could pull away at any time, I turned my hand so it cupped the back of the Hobbit’s neck. “All of your parts to yourself?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “You will share none of them?”

“Thorin—”

In my head, I could hear clear as if they were standing on either side of me, the voices of my father and grandfather. _Nothing can come of this. It is madness. Turn away from the Halfling and think of him no more. You are a prince, a king—you must not allow yourself to be bewitched by this small, strange creature. Stop this now, Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. Stop this right now._

I’d been listening to the echoes of my ancestors all of my life, but this time, I ignored their instruction. I leaned down and carefully took the Hobbit’s mouth in a kiss that felt like nothing so much as the wash of sensation I used to get as a young man, walking through the front gate of Erebor.

It felt like coming home.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the fantastic comments and encouragement! I've been blown away by the response. 
> 
> I'm trying to decide what to write next. There are some kinkmeme prompts that have really piqued my interest, and I also have some, "What If" one-shots and outtakes in mind that would fit into THIS series that go a little away from cannon that I think I'll post if there's any interest. For example..."What if...Sexy Times had Happened in Rivendell?"

_…and One Time Thorin Oakenshield Asked What He Should Do…_

The Hobbit’s lips were soft and warm, softer and warmer by far than any I’d ever touched, that was for certain.

Dwarfs, for all that we were free with our touches with both friends and family, were more circumspect in our treatment of lovers and rarely used our mouths in love play. It was much less likely to see a wife press her cheek against her mate’s or to stroke a lover’s beard than it would be to see brothers in arms embrace or clasp hands. Perhaps that’s why it struck me so deeply, the first time I saw a kiss between human mates. I was barely 30 years old and hardly out of my adolescence. It was in Dale, coming back from a Southen patrol. I’d been with Balin at the time and found myself fascinated when they caught my attention. The first thing I noticed was that the woman was heavy with child. When dwarf women are expecting, they do not leave the security of their homes. The second was the strange intensity of the contact. Though they were fully clothed and doing nothing that could have been considered indecent, there was something about the embrace that struck me as painfully intimate. Beside me, the older dwarf had cleared his throat and told me gently not to stare. I’d obeyed, but it hadn’t been easy. In truth, I’d been barely able to tear my eyes away.

At that age, I had of course experimented with the pleasures of the body, exploring with some of my friends and with one dwarf lass ten years my senior who I’d thought smashed my heart to pieces when she chose to give her affections to another and announced her marriage.  But never had I seen the like of that kiss. The man was a soldier of Dale, returning home after accompanying our group of dwarfs on patrol. That day we’d stumbled on a clutch of goblins, and a few of our company had been killed putting them down. Always the most vulnerable, the lives lost had all been those of men. For my part, I’d been exhilarated by the short battle, by fighting in one of my first true conflicts. All I really wanted was to rush back through the gates of Erebor and tell my father of my great deeds. I was euphoric with our victory.

 Until I saw the wife rush to her husband, terror and pain warring with joy on her face. He had pulled her to his chest, and while I could not hear what he said to her, his words were much less important than the emotion in his embrace. Though none of my kin had been taken, I realized perhaps for the first time as the couple clung to one another that not only dwarf lives were of value.

“Wh-what are they doing?” I’d asked Balin, quiet and uncertain as I tried to identify my emotions.

“It’s called kissing, Laddie. It’s something men do now and then to show strong emotion. Not a dwarfish custom, but I’ve heard ‘tis rather pleasant. Or it can be, with the right partner.” He answered. “Either way, it’s best to give them some privacy. As the Prince of Erebor, you must do your duty and give honor to the fallen before we return to the mountain. And the faster you get that over with, the faster you can share your glory with your father.”

Balin’s eyes twinkled knowingly up at me, filled with equal measures of pride and amusement. A heartbeat earlier and I would have shared in his enthusiasm. But my taste for boasting had soured. “What are the names of the men who died?” I asked instead of answering.

For a moment, Balin looked puzzled. “I’m not sure. It’s not necessary to know them, you know. You’ve only to offer a formal acceptance of the city’s sacrifice to the Legate. ”

“I want their names.” I would not be dissuaded, and Balin, ever loyal, had gotten them for me.

It had been my first public act as a Prince of Erebor. I had acknowledged the name of each of the fallen that day, and every time after when a soldier of Dale lost his life defending our kingdom. The passage of time erased that first short list from my memory, but not the kiss.

Later, I’d attempted the caress with the dwarfs with whom I took succor. The advances, while not entirely rebuffed, had been met with enough puzzlement and confusion to discourage me from attempting it often. Whether it was a dwarf man or woman, there was something too hard, too rough, about my kin to lend itself well to a kiss. And slowly, I ceased my attempts.

As I grew older, though, my fascination with the act lingered. When I was invited to share the bed of the Elf king, I thought perhaps I my curiosity in regard to kisses might be assuaged. But it was not. Pale and cold and eerie in his perfection, the seduction of Thranduil was strangely formal. I might have attempted a kiss had the affair continued, but no matter how I may have wanted it, there never seemed a place in the ceremony of the act for it to fit.

Then, of course, Smaug came.

Later, after our defeat at Moria, as I struggled to provide for my people in the Blue Mountains and build Thorin’s Hall for them, I lay from time to time with human women. And while they often tried to touch their lips to mine, I found myself avoiding the attempts. Whatever was inside me that wanted what I sensed could be found in the kisses of Dale had died. I no longer sought intimacy. I no longer wanted anything beyond the pull of physical relief.

In 100 years, that hadn’t changed.

Until today.

For long moments, I lost myself in Bilbo’s kiss. When finally we broke apart, I was surprised to realize that while our mouths were no longer slanting across one another, the Halfling hadn’t removed his lips fully from mine. He was smiling against my mouth, small hands reaching up to push at my sodden hair. My arms were around him again, much the way they had been at the top of the Carrock, and his slighter frame was once again offering support.

This time, I had no audience and did not feel the need to pull away. In fact, I let myself sag just a little heavier against him. The change was slight, but the Hobbit clearly felt it. Against my lips, his smile widened. And then he spoke, tone gentle and soft.

“Thorin Oakenshield, you are a mess.”

By all rights, I should have taken offense at the insult, but something about the manner it was delivered and the way he made no move away from me made the words feel more like praise than slur. I let my own lips curve up a little in a tentative smile. It wasn’t an expression I’d had much practice at recently, and I wanted to make sure I was doing it right. “Then we are a well matched pair, Master Baggins.”

My attempt at humor was rewarded with a huff of quiet laughter. “True.”

I hadn’t meant to say anything else, but somehow the words slipped from my mouth without me fully realizing. “I—am not sure what to do.”

Bilbo squeezed lightly, more strength than there should have been in his slight shoulders, and I felt him smile again. “Then you should do nothing.”

I pulled back a bit, confused. Nothing? I could not—Bilbo continued, changing his grip and bringing one hand up to stroke the side of my face. The caress cut off my thoughts and sent a shudder through my insides. “You are a king of dwarfs, a great warrior and defender of your people. When the time is right, you’ll know what you should do, and you will do it.”

“I am a king with no kingdom,” I replied, hearing the Goblin King’s words echo in my mind. “That makes me nothing.”

“No, it makes you everything.” Bilbo countered. “In the days of your grandfather, your people had their entire kingdom to rally behind. Now they have only their king. You are _everything_.”

“If that is true, then I am a poor substitute.” I laughed mirthlessly. “My greatest victory in battle was nothing but a lie. My enemy remains, the deaths of my grandfather and father un-avenged.”

“I heard Balin’s story, Thorin. Regardless of Azog’s fate, you saved your people that day. Your father and grandfather could have asked for no greater tribute.”

I shook my head slightly, unwilling or unable to find the words to explain my failure to Bilbo. “May I kiss you again?” It was not in my nature to ask, either for advice or permission, but something about the Hobbit prompted me to both.

“I believe I would like that,” he answered. Instead of waiting for me to take his lips, though, this time the Halfling stretched up and met mine. And for long moments, I let myself do nothing at all but revel in the body in my arms.  

Minutes passed, and I might have been content to stay in this place that felt outside reality forever had I not heard behind me a quiet cough. Taken unawares, I felt myself stiffen, turning fast and pushing Bilbo behind my back. Whoever it was, I would not let their shock at finding me with him cause the Hobbit harm. Instead of one of my companions, though, Gandalf stood watch us, tall and somehow more forbidding for the careful blankness of his features.

“What is it?” I asked tersely. It was only careful practice that kept my features from registering shock when I felt a gentle hand rub down my forearm, and then Bilbo stepped around and beside me, his words much more diplomatic than mine had been.

“Is everything alright, Gandalf?”

The wizard turned his attention to the Halfling, and his blank face softened with warmth. “Everything is fine, Bilbo. Some of the others were concerned for their leader and wanted to make sure the falls were having the same healing effects on his wounds as they had on theirs.”

“We are fine,” I heard myself say through gritted teeth.

“And I would imagine everyone should like to see that for himself,” Bilbo interrupted whatever I might have followed with gently. “I know I would not have been able to rest myself without having made sure.”

He was warm at my side, and I felt myself relaxing, the flare of my temper abating, against my will.

“Bilbo is right, Thorin. You must remember your duty to your kin.” Something in the wizard’s voice held deeper meaning than his words, but I steadfastly refused to examine it.

Instead, I gave Gandalf a slight nod. “We’ll dress and be along in a moment.”

“Excellent. The river is plentiful with trout. I believe Bombur and Bofur have rigged up fishing lines and are trying to catch us dinner. I’ll tell the rest you’ll be along shortly.”

As Gandalf turned away, I shifted my attention back to the Hobbit. He’d struggled into his shirt, the damp fabric clinging to warm, hairless skin that only moments ago had been pressed against mine. Much like the wizard’s had, I felt my expression soften as I took him in. I held out a hand and motioned for him to hand me the bundle with the rest of his warn clothing in it.

He flushed, but allowed me to help him into his vest and coat. Looking down, he muttered shyly toward his feet, and distracted as I had been by the process of getting him dressed again, I could not quite make out his words.

“Speak up, little burglar. I can’t tell if you’re talking to me or to your toes.”

His flush brightened, but he forced his eyes up. “I was saying—that is, I wanted to offer.” He paused and licked his lips, then pulled something from one of the inside pockets of his coat. “Er—I have a comb, if you’d like to put yourself in order.”

It was an offer I appreciated. While dwarfs as a whole are much less fastidious than elves or even men, keeping our beards and hair neat is of some measure of importance to us as a whole. And, while Bilbo would have had no way of knowing he was offering something intimate, anything associated with such grooming is considered quite personal, even the sharing of a comb. I started to reach for the offered object, trying to settle on the appropriate words of thanks, when my damaged shoulder made itself known.

I flinched back with a light curse, favoring the arm.

Bilbo was at my side in an instant, scrambling to the tips of his toes and demanding to be allowed to examine my shoulder. By all rights, I knew I shouldn’t really be able to move it at all without great pain. As strong as the rock from whence we were made, dwarfs are remarkable resilient. But being tossed about by the shoulder by a Gundabad warg was bound to cause injury. The bones hadn’t broken and the punctures were healing, but the muscle and tendons had still been strained.

“As generous as your offer is, Hobbit, I believe I may not be in a position to accept it.” I tested my shoulder, lifting it again, and was stopped by sharp pain once more before I could extend it fully. “Best I let this arm rest for a few days before I attempt to drag that little comb through these snarls.”

“Oh! Well, I could—“

“Bilbo!” Kili’s excited voice interrupted the offer I knew Bilbo was about to make. And for once, I found myself grateful for my nephew’s exuberance. Nothing was more intimate than the braiding of a dwarf’s hair. In all my years, never had I allowed another to do it for me. But if Bilbo Baggins had offered—it was madness, but I might have accepted.  

“Bilbo,” Kili continued in a rush, not noticing the way the Hobbit and I flinched apart. “We’ve caught some fish! Bombur is getting a fire ready. We have no pots, but Dwalin said that you were an expert at cooking fish and that we should get you. That you’d know what to do with them.”

“Er—I’m not an expert.” Bilbo stammered a bit in response, and I was gratified to realize that he was as shaken by the interruption as I had been. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one confused by the strange emotions swirling between the Halfling and myself.

“Oh.” Kili’s face fell. “Then should we just gut them and hold them on sticks over the fire?”

Straightening his shoulders, I was proud of the Hobbit when he shook off his distraction. “N-no. No. What I wouldn’t give for my frying pan and a bit of lemon and salt—but since wishes won’t get our dinner cooked—do you suppose you could find a large, flat rock? Thin as can be, if you please. And I think I noticed a bit of rosemary, growing from some of the crevices near the steps. Let’s get that, too.”

Kili’s grin bloomed again, and before I could stop him he’d reached out and taken my burglar by the arm. “Come on then. You can show me just what you’re looking for. You’d best hurry, Thorin, if you don’t want to miss your dinner!” He dragged the Hobbit away into the night, Bilbo glancing over his shoulder and sending me a tentative smile that, to my eyes, seemed filled with promise.

*             *             *

“A fine meal, Master Burglar, very fine.” Murmurs of agreement met Dori’s praise, and even across the fire as I was from him, I could see heat creep up the Hobbit’s cheeks.

“Oh, it was nothing, really,” Bilbo protested. “Hobbit’s are quite fond of fish.”

“But few Hobbits, I think, have had cause to cook it on a rock over an open fire,” Gandalf interrupted.

“Well—hunger is a powerful motivation, isn’t it? Healing waters or not, one can’t be expected to get one’s strength back with eating raw fish, or eating it charred to black. Have to be a bit creative, right?”

The flash of Bilbo’s eyes in my direction was quick, but I knew without looking that Gandalf hadn’t missed it. I was a bit surprised when, instead of answering, he just harrumphed under this beard.

Weariness was evident among the company, and with our bellies full, warm and as safe as we had been in a long while, it seemed as though everyone was drowsing, content to let silence stretch out between us. I looked around the company, and it struck me that each of my fellows had in his own way sought comfort from another this night.

Dwalin was running a small whetstone methodically over the blade of his ax, Balin beside him steadying the handle. Nori, Dori, and Ori were methodically looking through the contents of their pockets, pooling them in a pile between them. Fili and Kili were leaned shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed toward one another. Bifur and Bofur each laid their head on one of Bombur’s massive thighs, and Oin and Gloin carefully worked Oin’s crushed ear trumpet back open again.

It was not so different than any other night of our journey. But this night, I was discontent. I’d always isolated myself by choice, holding myself separate. From across the fire, I felt the weight of Bilbo’s gaze on mine. He was watching me, looking conflicted. I felt an answering confusion in my own breast. Part of me wanted to call to him, to ask him to my side so that I, too, could feel the warmth of closeness. But I found that I could not. For half a second, I felt my mask of indifference slip before I steadfastly turned my eyes away and looked once again into the fire.

No matter how I might crave it, I would not show weakness. I would not ask for comfort of companionship from anyone, certainly not from a small Halfling. Had I been a wiser dwarf, I would have realized something about the Hobbit I’d failed to take into account as I resigned myself to a night alone—he would not make me ask.

In unguarded instant, Bilbo must have seen the secret longing on my face. Moving as quiet as a whispered breeze, he slipped without a word around the camp fire and near to my side. He looked quite nervous but also as resolved as I’d ever seen him.

“Can I help you, Master Baggins?” I asked, tone carefully neutral.

I could see the Hobbit steeling himself. He nodded his head slightly. “It is quite chilly over there. This side of the fire looks a bit warmer.”

Whatever small noises and movements were coming from the other dwarfs cut off like flames smothered. A strange tension filled the air. Fili started to shift forward, I can only assume to offer Bilbo a place beside him to save him the embarrassment of what he assumed would be my rejection.

Because there could be no doubt in any of the minds of the company that I _would_ send the Hobbit away from me. For a span of time far longer than just this journey, never had I allowed my isolation to be compromised. It was well known that even my indulgence in carnal matters was conducted as a formality, the sating of a need and then my partners sent quickly on their way. There was no question in the action I should take. I looked up at the Hobbit, standing nervously above me, waiting for my answer.

I nodded once, solemn. “We can’t have our burglar freezing.”

Lifting my arm, I motioned him forward, ignoring the hastily silenced gasps coming from my fellows. A swift, warning look around the circumference of the fire silenced any comments that may have been forthcoming, and with a brilliant smile, Bilbo turned and scooted himself into my side.

“As I suspected,” he announced boldly. “Much more satisfactory.”

It was then I realized that he, too, was looking around the circle with an expression of warning. And all at once I understood that he was defending me, as well. The fierce little Hobbit would allow no protest or question of my judgment. He would not permit any castigation of my decision to accept the closeness of another on this night. I wondered, for a moment, if I was the only one who understood that. Sitting as we were, with my arm around him, it would have looked like I was sheltering his body. But, in truth, propped underneath my shoulder he was a stalwart support, holding me unobtrusively up.

Perhaps I should have set Bilbo away from me. But as I’d been reminded today, I was a king of dwarfs. I did not have to accept the suggestions or advice of others who could not understand the burden of leadership.

I glanced down at the tousled head beside me and made a silent amendment. I did not have to accept suggestion or advice—but I could ask for them.


End file.
